Unfortunate Circumstances
by upsettingthemoon
Summary: AU where John and Sherlock are entered in the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey so this is my new story. It takes place about 8 years after the first book. Set in an AU where the rebellions were more active before the Quarter Quell, the Capitol won, and all was back to normal by the time of the Quarter Quell.**

**Reviews are appreciated, especially ones that include constructive criticism or just nice things.**

**Sherlock**

Sherlock woke early the morning of reaping day. Not that waking early was unusual for Sherlock. He detested sleeping, being awake was much better. When he was awake he could observe others, carry out experiments on the district and the people in it, and, most importantly, teach himself how to fight. Sherlock lived in District 12, the mining district of Panem. He was a child of the business class. His parents ran a respectable business, and his older brother, Mycroft, had been mayor for four years now. One would think that this would make him safe from being reaped, but Sherlock knew this wasn't true.

After all the mayhem that had been caused by Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark eight years previously the Capitol had changed the rules of the Games. Panem had come too close to an uprising for President Snows liking, so he had doubled the amount of tributes that were entered into the Games each year. He also doubled the numbered of winners each year. Two survivors out of forty-eight, and they didn't even have to be from the same District. Snow acted like this made him generous, but all it did was make the districts hate him more. Katniss and Peeta still lived in District 12, and they would be mentoring the tributes for as long as they lived. That was their punishment for what they had done, each year being responsible for the death of four children. Well, that among other things. Following Katniss and Peeta's wedding, which President Snow had insisted they go through with despite the rebelling that had been going on at the time, Katniss' sister Prim had been reaped for the Quarter Quell, and she hadn't lasted past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. There had been an "accident" in the mines soon after, and Gale Hawthorne's body had never been found. Then Katniss had gotten pregnant. Twice. Two kids who everybody knew would be reaped as soon as they turned twelve.

Sherlock didn't like to think about it. He didn't like thinking about how everything had gotten worse in eight years. He had only been nine at the time. If he had been the age he was now, seventeen, with his amazing brain, he had no doubt they could have overthrown the Capitol. But it was too late now. The districts were too scared of the Capitol to even think about saying anything against them, and, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he would be unsuccessful if he tried acting on his own.

So Sherlock rolled out of bed, putting all thought out of his mind, and went to his closet. He pulled out his nice pants and dress shirt, his nicest clothes and the ones he wore whenever Mycroft forced him to some government affair. Sherlock did not enjoy these, seeing as they basically consisted of the Victory Tour dinners. Watching solemn kids try and look as though they were enjoying themselves is never pleasant.

He went downstairs, grabbing a muffin from the kitchen, before heading out the door. The sun still low in the sky as he walked down the street, chewing his muffin and trying not to get crumbs on his shirt. He hadn't had a plan for where he would go when he left, but he ended up where he always did. His bench.

It wasn't strictly speaking his, but he was the only one who ever sat on it. It was on the outskirts of the Seam. Out of the corner of his right eye he could see the Seam, all the lower class people of the district. There was a dirt road to his left that led to the mines, and one ahead that led to the main town square and the school. Almost directly straight ahead was the Town Hall. Some days, when the weather was too hot for comfort, Mycroft would have his office windows open and Sherlock would watch from a distance and try to decipher what was happening inside. He would question Mycroft about his observations later and was almost always right.

Sherlock stayed on his bench, deducing the people who walked by, until the occasional person leaving the Seam had changed into a steady stream of people heading to the town square for the reaping. They were all in their nicest clothing, and Sherlock couldn't help but try and guess which ones would have the highest chance of being reaped. He reluctantly stood up and joined in the walk to the town square. He exchanged curt nods with the kids he knew from school and the adults, and he tried to smile reassuringly at the younger kids, but stopped after the third one had looked away in fear.

When he arrived at the town square Mycroft was up on the stage along with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch and the Capitol escort, Laina. This was Laina's third year as the District 12 escort, and she was much less annoying than Effie who had been promoted to District 8.

The girls were reaped first. The first, a fourteen year old, Anna, from the Seam with far too many friends who all started sobbing the moment her name had been called. The second was also from the Seam, an eighteen year old named Clara.

Then it was the boys turn. Despite his efforts not to get nervous, Sherlock's hands were getting sweaty.

Laina had a slip of paper in her hands. She unfolded it slowly, it seemed an eternity to all the boys waiting. She cleared her throat, irritating Sherlock. He wished she'd hurry up and announce who it was, the suspense was completely unnecessary.

"John Watson."

Sherlock groaned internally, glancing to his left where he saw John, also seventeen, standing. His friends were all around him, grasping his shoulders, arms, back, their faces identical mixtures of shock and pain. John waited only a moment before shaking them off and walking slowly up to the stage. Sherlock watched him go. John Watson was one of the few people who Sherlock was able to stand. Being the same age, they had been in the same class since they were young children, and John had always been nicer to him than the others. He was also more intelligent than most, but was also athletic and friendly. Sherlock didn't have any friends. He had realized at a young age that other people his age were boring and stupid, but if he had to have picked a friend, it would have been John. By the time John reached the stage, Laina had another slip in her hand.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strolled up to the stage, knowing it couldn't have gone any other way, not really.


	2. Chapter 2

_Forgot this on the last chapter, but disclaimer for it and the rest of this story: I do not own any of the characters or places or anything __really, that pleasure goes to ACD and Suzanne Collins._**  
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**John**

John waited in the Justice Building. He seemed calm enough on the outside, considering the events of the day, but he was freaking out on the inside. Not because he was reaped, he had accepted that as a possible fate from a very early age and the thought didn't bother him, but because Clara had been reaped along with him. And if they both died, and it was likely that they would, his sister would have very little reason to go on.

She was the first to visit him. John stood as the door opened and she rushed inside, pulling him into a tight embrace. She was already crying.

"I'm sorry," John muttered, "I'm so sorry."

"No," Harry pulled back from him, "Don't. I don't want my last time with my little brother spent with you feeling sorry for me." Her voice cracked on the last word and she collapsed onto the couch.

"It's nice to know you have so much faith in me winning," John said sarcastically, sitting beside her.

"I'm sorry, but it's just not realistic. You know it as well as I do. You might be one of the stronger boys in District 12, but you are nothing compared to the careers."

"Still, it'd be nice to know if someone believed in me."

"I can't. I can't let myself hope. Maybe if Clara hadn't been reaped but…" She sniffed. "I don't want to lose both of you."

"Maybe you won't. Maybe one of us will come home. Hell, maybe both of us will come home." John tried his best to sound optimistic, but he knew it was pointless. "You have to try and stay strong, okay Harry? No matter what happens, you can't rid Mom and Dad of both their children. It's not fair."

"I know, I'll try." She pursed her lips and looked at John, staring intently as though she was trying to commit his face to memory. "It's not supposed to be this way. You're not supposed to be comforting me, I should be comforting you. You got reaped, you're going off to war."

"It's not a war, it's just the Games."

"It may as well be a war. A televised, brutal, childish war."

John didn't know what to say to that, because it was true. Completely true. So he changed the subject. "Have you gone to see Clara yet?"

"I'll go there next. Her parents are in with her now." John nodded. There wasn't really anything left to say but John knew Harry wouldn't leave until the Peacekeepers dragged her out, and didn't want her to go yet anyway. So they sat side by side on the couch, Harry's soft sobs the only sound in the room. John had just started wondering how long they had left when Harry spoke.

"Oh, I almost forgot." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a watch. John's watch, to be specific. He reached out and took it from her. "For your token. I ran home and got it after they called your name. I know how much you love it. I would have gone for something with more significance, but there really wasn't anything."

John rubbed his thumb across the face of the watch before strapping it on his wrist. "Thank you, Harry." He reached out to hug her again and she burst into a fresh set of tears.

"I'm going to miss you. I love you, little brother."

"I love you too, big sis. I'll try and come home."

"I know."

"I'll try and bring Clara home too."

"Thank you."

And then the door was opening and the Peacekeepers were coming in and Harry was leaving and that was when John started to feel himself breaking.

The first tear fell just as the door slammed shut. By the time it was opened again a minute later, John was crying harder than he ever had in his life. He tried to stop crying through the visits, but he couldn't.

They went by slowly. His friends came first, all separately, all with a slightly variation of "I hope you come back." They patted him awkwardly on the back as he cried and a few even joined him tears of their own.

Some ex-girlfriends came by too. This was unsurprising, as John had quite a few. They came with declarations of how they never would have let their relationship end if they had known it would end this way. John was annoyed after the third of these, and was relieved when his parents walked through the door.

They sat on either side of him on the couch, both with their arms around him and with his mother pressing occasional kisses to the top of his head as they talked. They talked about nothing in particular, the weather, Harry, John's watch, but not that he was leaving. It wasn't until John knew they only had a minute or so left that he voiced anything important.

"I don't want to go."

"And we don't want you to go."

"I don't want to die."

His parents chose to rub his arms comfortingly and press more kisses to head his head instead of answering in words. Because really, what do you say to that?

The Peacekeepers came to the door again, but this time it was to take John to the train.

"We love you John, we'll always love you, no matter what happens." They took turns embracing him.

"I love you too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Sherlock**

Sherlock was lying on his bed in his room on the train when Laina came to announce dinner. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was not hungry, but she maintained that his presence would be required as they were to watch the summary of the reapings afterwards. In the end he agreed only to make her go away.

He didn't go immediately though, he stayed on his bed, running over the events of the day in his mind, trying to decide if any of it could be deleted.

The reaping, of course, would have to stay. He couldn't have himself forgetting why he was on a train, in the Capitol, in the arena, being shot at. No, the reaping stayed. He considered deleting his visits with his family. Neither the visit with his parents nor his brother had been very eventful. His parents had merely sat in silence until it was time for them to leave when his mother hugged him and his father shook his hand and they both wished him luck. Sherlock thought he may have seen tears in his mother's eyes, but he dismissed it as wishful thinking. Mycroft, on the other hand, had spent his time with Sherlock alternating between threatening the Capitol for reaping his brother and offering Sherlock advice on what to do in the arena. Sherlock found neither of the exchanges particularly important but supposed that in his last moments of life he might regret deleting his last moments with his family, and decided to keep them both.

It was lucky that no one else had come to say good-bye, or he would have had to decide what to do with those memories too. At least that's what Sherlock told himself.

He waited a few more minutes before getting off the bed and heading to dinner, just to annoy Laina. He paused before the mirror beside his door and admired his appearance. There was a huge wardrobe in his room and he had been told he could wear anything from it that he wanted. He spent longer in there than he cared to admit before picking out a purple shirt and some plain black pants. He had also taken a coat. It was long and heavy and completely unnecessary in the indoor environment of the train, but he took it anyway.

Everyone else was already there when he arrived at dinner. Sherlock took a seat beside Anna and took a small bowl of soup that he could eat while watching his companions.

Katniss and Peeta were sitting side by side, talking quietly and occasionally glancing at the tributes, trying to determine how long they would last.

Haymitch was sitting on the other side of Peeta. He had a bottle of wine and a plateful of food in front of him. He was mainly drinking the wine, only touching the food when Peeta took breaks form his conversation with Katniss to give him very pointed looks.

John and Clara were sitting together, but the only time they spoke was to recommend a certain food. They were comfortable together, and Sherlock remembered seeing Clara with a girl who looked like John. His sister, probably. So John's sister and Clara were friends. They would probably team up together in the arena, but they wouldn't have much of a chance. John had picked a horrible oatmeal sweater from his wardrobe. Sherlock supposed he had been going for comfort, but there must have been something more flattering than that. Clara had gone with a simple long sleeve shirt made of some material that Sherlock didn't recognize. Probably synthetic.

Sherlock examined Anna last. She showed obvious signs of having cried. Both John and Clara had also been crying when they arrived on the train, but all signs of it had disappeared from their faces. So Anna had been crying more recently than they had, probably in her room right up until dinner. Her hair was mused and Sherlock assumed she had been trying to sleep which was confirmed when he glanced at what she was wearing and saw it was pyjamas. Who comes to dinner in pyjamas? Sherlock would be surprised if she made it past the blood bath at the Cornucopia.

When everyone's plates were cleared, Peeta stood up.

"Have you all eaten enough?" He asked, glancing around at them. They all nodded. "You didn't eat very much, Sherlock."

"I don't need to eat very much."

"It would be a good idea to eat a lot now, you'll lose weight quickly in the arena."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure I'll manage."

Peeta watched him for a moment before continuing on. "All right then. We've got some time before we have to go watch the reapings, so I guess we can start discussing strategies. That is, unless any of you have a preference for private training." The four tributes shook their heads. "Well then, do any of you have any talents that could be of benefit to you in the arena?"

Peeta was playing with his hands, Sherlock noticed. He was nervous. This couldn't be easy, he'd given a similar speech many times now. Sherlock doubted Katniss ever did it, Peeta was protective of her and wouldn't want her to speak to the tributes any more than necessary, he didn't want her to get attached. And Haymitch would be rude, he would scare some of the younger or more timid tributes, so Peeta did it. Sherlock thought back to something Mycroft had said once, something about how caring wasn't an advantage, and for once in his life, Sherlock agreed with him.

Peeta was still waiting for an answer, looking hopefully at each of their faces. He was tired of losing everyone. Just once, he wanted someone to beat the odds.

Finally Anna spoke. "What skills could we have gained in District 12 that would be of any benefit in these games?" Sherlock momentarily wondered how such a bitter girl could possibly have so many friends. His bitterness certainly hadn't helped his popularity any.

"It doesn't necessarily have to be a fighting skill. Just anything that could advantage you. Even something that could help you get in with the Careers, which could help you quite a bit." Peeta was starting to look desperate.

"Sherlock's clever." It was John who had spoken, and everyone turned to look at him.

"And how is that supposed to help me survive?" Sherlock asked with a slight trace of irony, he was already planning on his cleverness to keep him alive. If he decided he wanted to stay alive, that is.

"Well, you're the top in our class. You always know everything about everyone, things that people definitely did not tell you. You could use that to your advantage."

"What do you mean he knows everything about everybody?" Clara asked, leaning forward a little. "What kind of things?"

Sherlock turned to face her and looked right into her eyes. Her eyebrows were raised a little in question. "Closeted lesbian." Her mouth fell open a little. "In a relationship with John's sister." Her mouth opened a little more. "I suppose these games will be quite a damper on your relationship." Her mouth shut with an audible snap. Sherlock allowed himself to smile.

"Sherlock." John was scolding him.

"She wanted to know."

"That's not the point."

Sherlock broke his eye contact with Clara, who was glaring at him, to look at John. "What? Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah." John was staring back at him. Sherlock could see that while he wasn't happy, he was impressed.

"But how did you know?" Clara asked.

"All the facts were there."

"But we haven't told anyone. We've been careful."

"Careful doesn't erase the facts." Sherlock snapped.

"So can you do that with everyone?" Haymitch asked, taking another drink from his bottle.

"Yes."

"Well then, yes, your cleverness could definitely help you in the arena." Katniss told him, watching him intently.

"Yes, I suppose it might. If I let it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked. He was angry. Sherlock wondered why.

"It means just what it sounds like." John was about to argue back when they were interrupted by Laina.

"I hate to disrupt, but the reapings are about to start and watching them is mandatory, so if you could all just relocate…"


	4. Chapter 4

**John**

After leaving the dining room, John found himself sitting on a couch squished between Clara and Sherlock staring at a TV. It was a nice TV, a hell of a lot bigger than the ones at home, which a much better picture. The replay of the reapings started and Clara grabbed onto his forearm, but John hardly noticed. He was thinking about Sherlock. He assumed he would be thinking about him anyway, after the conversation they had just had, but Sherlock's warm body pressing up against John's side wasn't helping any.

So instead of watching the reapings like he was supposed to be doing, sizing up the other tributes and imagining which ones he would personally be killing, he was wondering what the hell Sherlock had meant by "If I let it."

Because John thought, and believe it or not John was fairly intelligent, that it sounded like Sherlock might not try to win. And this was total crap because everyone tried to win the games, no sane teenager willingly dies.

But John supposes that Sherlock isn't an ordinary teenager, so it's perfectly likely he's not a sane one either.

And it was this train of thought that left John with no idea of what had happened on the screen half an hour later when Laina turned the lights back on. And, since knowing your competition could be important in the games, John asked Laina if she could replay it for him, which she did happily. A little too happily, actually.

The lights were off, the door closed, and John had slid to the end of the couch that Clara had occupied before he noticed that Sherlock had stayed to watch it with him.

"You weren't paying attention the first time either?" He asked as the first girl from District 1 was reaped.

"No, I paid attention; I just wanted to reassess the competition."

"Oh yeah? I would have thought you would have gotten all the information you needed the first time around."

"It never hurts to double check."

A second girl was called.

"Would ever consider sharing your information with someone?"

"Why would I ever want to do that?"

"Well, if you shared it with me, that could make us a team. And the people with teams always last longer."

Sherlock studied him for a moment; he began talking as the first male was called.

"Alright then. Just reaped was James Moriarty. Sixteen years old. Being from District 1, he will have some kind of advantage, but he doesn't look very strong. He didn't volunteer, but he is smiling. So either he's crazy and is looking forward to dying, or he has some kind of talent that he knows will be an advantage. I've already said he doesn't look very strong, so it's likely something intellectual. He could be intelligent, or maybe just good at manipulating people. See the way the other tributes are looking at him, they're scared. He's likely to be the leader of the Careers, and he is definitely someone to watch out for."

John was watching him in awe. "That was remarkable."

"You think so?"

"Of course. I mean, I already knew you could do it, but seeing it in action it's… wow. It's wow."

John blushed, and Sherlock appraised him. "That's not the reaction I usually guess."

"What reaction do you usually get?"

"Piss off."

John laughed, and Sherlock joined him.

"I guess that probably would have been my reaction if you had been doing it to me, but watching you do it to other people is amazing."

"Thank you."

"Anytime. So what about her, then?"

They sat together as Sherlock shared his deductions about all the notable tributes. There was Gregory Lestrade, from District 2, who looked like quite a fighter and probably would have become a Peacekeeper if he hadn't been reaped, but would decide not to join the Career pack.

Sally Donavon and Caleb Anderson from District 7 got an honourable mention as apparently they were in some kind of romantic relationship. John argued with Sherlock at this, pointing at the girl who had tried to cling to Caleb as he walked to the stage. Sherlock countered by rewinding to show John both Caleb's and Sally's reactions to the other being reaped, the looks Sally shoots Caleb's girlfriend as he walks to the stage, and they way they are obviously restraining themselves from comforting each other. Caleb had been cheating on his girlfriend on and off with Sally for about a year out of the two they had been together.

"They won't be able to maintain the secrecy once their in the arena." Sherlock decided.

"It will be terrible for her, having her boyfriend go off the Games and then finding out while he's there that he's been cheating on her for ages."

"Oh yes, it's a very good thing I don't have that problem." Sherlock muttered somewhat sarcastically.

"What, you don't have a girlfriend?" John asked nonchalantly.

"No, not really my area." Sherlock was watching as the next Districts reaping started, but apparently the first girl wasn't worth a mention.

"A boyfriend, then?"

Sherlock broke his gaze from the screen to look at John. "John, I'm flattered by your interest, but we have been entered into a game that will most likely have both of us dead within a couple of weeks, and I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh, no, God no. No interest, I just thought that if we're going to be a team it'd be nice if we know a little bit about each other first, other than that you're brilliant."

"When did I agree we would be a team?"

"When you started telling me about Moriarty."

"Ah, yes. Of course."

"Not regretting are you?"

Sherlock took a moment to answer, he was considering John, and John hoped that the disappointment in his voice wouldn't show through.

"No, I'm not regretting it."

John couldn't help but grin. "Well alright then, what about her?"

The "her" in question was Molly Hooper, District 10. She was fifteen, and John didn't like the look in her eyes as she shook hands with the other Tributes. Something about it said that she enjoyed her job of cutting up the livestock far too much to be considered healthy.

They watched themselves get reaped in silence. John could see Harry in the background when Clara was reaped. He didn't think he had ever seen him so distressed. That is, until he saw her when he got reaped.

"Harry." He said, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Harry, my sister. Well, Harriet really, but nobody calls her that. If there's going to be one thing keeping me alive in that arena, it's her. I can't have her losing us both." John considered clarifying that he meant him and Clara when he said that, but he supposed Sherlock already knew and didn't bother.

"I don't really have a reason."

"Not even just for the point of staying alive?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he just shut off the TV and walked to the door. "I'm going to bed now."

John sighed, wishing Sherlock had answered the question. "Alright then, goodnight." Sherlock didn't answer, he just walked out of the room, leaving John alone in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock**

Breakfast the next morning was a silent affair. They all sat in the same places as the previous night, except for Haymitch, who Sherlock assumed was too hung-over to attend. This assumption was helped by the fact that Sherlock had heard him vomiting rather violently has he had walked past his door on the way to breakfast.

Sherlock picked half-heartedly at his muffin. Everyone else was eating loads. The table was filled with plates of pastries, cereal, bacon, pancakes, muffins, fruits, and various hot drinks, but none of it appealed to Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring at his muffin, he had managed to eat about half of it and was trying to figure out what ingredients were in it, when something hit him in the side of the head. He reached out his hand and caught an orange as it rebounded off of him, and then glared around the table, searching for the perpetrator. John was smiling at him, his eyes went from the orange to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock shook his head, and John just smiled wider. Sherlock reached for a knife that was lying beside his disfigured muffin and stabbed it in John's direction. John just picked up his own knife and mimed cutting something. When Sherlock glared harder, John's smile just widened.

Sherlock sighed. He picked up his orange from the table and lobbed it at John's head. John, who had been watching, managed to grab it before it hit him. Sherlock gave him a look that he hoped said "Cut this for me please," and smiled as sweetly as possible. John raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?" they said. Sherlock nodded. John sighed and rolled his eyes. He grabbed a plate from the stack and began cutting the orange. When he finished, he had to stand to pass the plate back to Sherlock, who tilted his head in thank you. John just rolled his eyes again. Neither of them noticed that everyone in the room was watching.

"What just happened?" Clara asked.

"Exactly what I was wondering." Katniss added, looking a little confused, and also a little sad.

"He needs to eat." John said, blushing.

"No I don't." Sherlock said, picking up a piece of orange and looking at it in disgust.

"Yes you do," John and Peeta responded in unison.

Sherlock put the piece of orange in his mouth and chewed. He swallowed and turned his gaze to John. "Happy?"

"Quite."

An awkward silence followed.

"Um, we're about to pull into the station. If you could go change and retrieve your things." Laina was just about as awkward as that silence had been.

Sherlock followed John down to his room.

"Why did you make me do that?" He asked, leaning against his door frame as John grabbed a watch off the bedside table.

"You need to eat."

"But why do you care if I eat?"

"We're teammates now, meaning your health is my concern. You don't eat nearly enough to keep you alive and I don't want you dying on me over something I can control."

"Why do you want me on your team so bad anyway?"

John hesitated, not for long, but it was long enough for Sherlock to grow infinitely more curious. "I just… I just think that the two of us together would have a good chance of survival." Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John cut him off. "And don't tell me that you might not want to survive, because you do, and if you actually don't then you should want to because it would be a shame to waste your brilliance." John had an expression on his face that was a combination of anger and something that was either pride or embarrassment, maybe it was both.

"Shouldn't you be trying to keep Clara alive?" Sherlock muttered.

"Excuse me?" John snapped his head around to look at Sherlock.

"I said," Sherlock cleared his throat, annoyed at having to repeat himself, "Shouldn't you be trying to keep Clara alive." When John just stared at him, he added, "Instead of me."

"What, for Harry, you mean?" Sherlock nodded. John ran his fingers through his hair, looking conflicted. "I 'spose probably, yeah. But in all honesty," he lowered his voice a little, "I think you'll be easier to keep alive. She's not the strongest person ever, Clara's not. Physically and mentally." John looked back up at Sherlock. "Don't tell her I said that."

"Of course not. Let's go, the train's starting to stop." John walked to join him, pausing to look back in on his room.

"You know, we may never be on a train again."

"And that is one of the most depressing things I have ever heard. Why would you give me crap about not wanting to live and then say something like that?"

"If we are going to die in the arena then I would like to make the most of my last days, which should have included being on a train." John caught the sceptical look Sherlock was giving him and shrugged. "Yeah, I know, I make no sense, let's go."

* * *

><p>A couple hours later Sherlock and John were standing completely naked and almost completely hairless in front of the scrutinizing eye of their stylist, Mrs. Hudson. She had been walking around them in circles for almost five minutes, and the boys were very pointedly avoiding making eye contact as they had learned after the first minute of her circling that this would only make them laugh. She was talking the whole time, chattering on about how horrible it was that two such fine boys had been reaped together. Finally, after a grand total of six and a half minutes of circling, she stopped.<p>

"Here are your robes, dears," she said, handing them each one, and then "Let's go eat lunch, you two must be famished. Both so skinny, they don't feed you enough in those Districts," she fussed, and walked into the adjoining room.

There was a table already set, Mrs. Hudson sat on one side, leaving the two chairs on the other side open for Sherlock and John. Both Mrs. Hudson and John immediately started piling food onto their plates, but Sherlock took the opportunity to properly examine their stylist.

Mrs. Hudson had short greying hair, comfortable clothing, and minimal make-up. She also looked her age, and didn't appear to of had many operations done to maintain a youthful appearance. She seemed so normal. District normal, not Capitol normal, and Sherlock found himself almost liking her. She did talk too much though.

"It's rude to stare," John told him, biting into an apple.

"It's also rude to talk with your mouth full. And I wasn't staring."

"Yes, you were. Now eat." John gestured down at Sherlock's plate, which Sherlock was surprised to see was filled with food.

"How did that get there?"

"Maybe if you hadn't been so busy staring you would have seen me put it there."

Sherlock picked up his fork instead of responding, stabbing an unfamiliar slice of melon and placing it in his mouth. John was watching him eat it, so he chewed slowing and swallowed obviously, smacking his lips afterwards. John gave him a satisfied smile and returned to his own meal.

"You two are sweet. Good on you John, making him eat, as I already said, he really is much too thin. But then I guess you are too."

Sherlock didn't know what Mrs. Hudson meant by calling them "sweet", and honestly, he didn't care. The whole food thing was already annoying enough with just John enforcing it without Mrs Hudson's agreement. He was used to eating when he wanted to, which was rarely at meal times. He wondered if John would be this annoying about it in the arena. Then he wondered if he would mind. He pondered that while he chewed on a white roll. By the time he finished the roll he had an answer, which led to his next question of why wouldn't he mind? The answer had barely come to him when Mrs. Hudson announced it was time for them to go get dressed.

"What exactly are we going to be dressing in?" John asked cautiously. Mrs. Hudson grinned broadly.

"I'll bring them in here, one moment." She disappeared into the other room.

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" John groaned, placing his head in his hands.

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps in the doorway caused him to warily raise his head. He seemed to be genuinely concerned about what they were going to wear. It couldn't be because he cared how he would look in it, John wasn't vain. No, it must be because the outfit would be for the opening ceremonies, which would give the sponsors their first look at the tributes. Sponsors could be very important in the arena if you wanted to live, which John did.

Mrs. Hudson was walking toward them, a costume in each hand. Sherlock couldn't tell exactly what they were supposed to. Black, shapeless in some points but there seemed to be multiple points on each that had a fixed shape. She held them up and Sherlock realised what they were supposed to be the moment before Mrs. Hudson confirmed it.

"Well, here they are. I wasn't completely sold on the idea when my partner suggested it, but now that I've met you I think they'll suit you wonderfully. It's not like we had a lot to go with, you being from the coal district and all, but I think it'll work rather nicely. Pickaxes." She grinned broadly, then repeated it. "Pickaxes."


	6. Chapter 6

**John  
><strong>

John and Sherlock donned their costumes in silence. After the original horror of learning he would have to wear something that could easily be used as a weapon for his first night in the Capitol, he started to appreciate the costume. It was a simple black jumpsuit with three metal points, one for each of his hands and one for his head. that were shaped as the head of a pickaxe. John wasn't actually completely sure that they used pickaxes to mine coal, but he figured if he didn't know then the Capitol definitely wouldn't and he decided not to bring it up.

Mrs. Hudson then covered both of their faces in black makeup, put some dye in John's hair to make it darker, and allowed them to look in the mirror.

The outfits weren't completely unflattering, John noted as he admired himself. They fit snugly and any muscles that John had were clearly defined within the fabric in almost all angles of light. After spending a completely vain amount of time checking himself out, John turned his gaze to Sherlock.

Big Mistake.

John had always noticed that Sherlock was attractive. It wasn't necessarily that John found him attractive, but Sherlock's attractiveness was a fact. No one with eyes could deny it. And that's why John should never have looked at Sherlock in his jumpsuit. Because if John had thought ahead he would have realized that if the suit could make him, for lack of a better word, sexy, then it would put Sherlock off the charts.

Sherlock noticed John staring at him and grinned. His smile was slightly manic and, paired with the black face and pickaxe costume, made him look incredibly threatening. John was glad that they had already agreed to team up or he would be spending as much time as possible avoiding him.

"Smile like that during the ceremony tonight and you'll have people begging to sponsor you." John said, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock to look at himself again.

"What? Like this?" and he smiled wider. John glanced back at him and cringed.

"Yes, you look quite scary. The Capitol loves the scary ones. They always seem to think they'll win."

"Do you think that should be my angle at the interview then? Spend then whole time scowling and making death threats to the other tributes?"

"Just as long as none of those threats are aimed at me."

"Never." Sherlock assured John, the two confident syllables echoing slightly in the room. John smiled shyly at Sherlock.

"Well, that's good then. The sentiment is returned, of course, although I don't actually plan on making any death threats to begin with."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in response.

"It's time to go." Mrs. Hudson said, coming up behind them and grabbing them each behind an elbow. They followed quietly behind her for a couple minutes before arriving in a large room, her nattering on the whole time about how "I'm not your escort, this isn't my job."

The room was filled with tributes, stylists, and carriages. Mrs. Hudson led them over to the last carriage in the row, District 12's. Clara and Anna were already there. Their outfits were almost the same as John and Sherlock's except the girls had far less fabric. John supposed it was to make them look sexy, but they both looked too uncomfortable for it to have any benefit.

Clara was introducing John to her stylist, Mrs. Turner**, **when John noticed a tribute sneak up behind Sherlock. John managed to catch Sherlock's eye and motion to him before he could catch him off guard.

"Well, well. Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?" Sherlock turned and smiled at the tribute standing there.

"Ah, yes. And James Moriarty?"

"Please, call me Jim."

"I don't think so. Now, I'd shake your hand, but I'd hate to injure you before the games start." Sherlock lifted his right hand to examine the sharp point protruding from it.

"No, we can't have that. There will be plenty of time for fighting later. I am looking forward to it. This little game we'll be playing. Aren't you?"

"Of course he's not." John cut into their conversation, "No sane person would be."

"Oh, but I'm sane, and I'm looking forward to it, so I think that was an insult, and now you're on the top of my list, John." John's name came out as a snarl.

"I wouldn't say that if I were you." Sherlock growled, taking half a step in front of John.

"Oh, protective are we? People do seem to get that way over their pets."

"I can understand how you might confuse pets with friends, seeing as you have none of the latter, but was that really necessary?"

"Friends? Really?" Moriarty leaned forward to whisper in Sherlock's ear. John couldn't hear but he was saying, but Sherlock noticeably tensed up. "I'd best get back to my carriage, I'll be the first one out. See you around, Sherlock."

John and Sherlock watched him walk away

"What did he say to you?" John turned to Sherlock, not bothering to try and hide the concern in his eyes, Sherlock would see through it anyway.

Sherlock glanced at John, the minor alarm in his eyes disappearing as soon as they made contact with John's. "Nothing of importance."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You can't let him get to you."

"I know, John."

"Boys, time to get in, the first carriage is leaving." Mrs. Hudson called from where she was standing a few feet away.

The girls were already in the carriage, and John climbed in ahead of Sherlock to go stand beside Clara.

As the carriage started to move John noted, with absurd amusement, that while their outfits were somewhat flattering, they were still horrible. Absolutely horrible. And it was this thought that had John laughing as the carriage moved through the doors into the eyes of the Capitol.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey! Sorry for the delay in posting this, I thought I did it last week... oops. I'll try to update regularly but I'm a bit busier than I had been. And thanks for all the reviews, alerts, and favourites, it really means a lot!_

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock<strong>

Later that night Sherlock lay in bed, irritated because no bed had the right to be _that _comfortable. He wanted to be able to think, but the bed was dragging him towards unconsciousness.

He threw the covers off of him with a harsh moan and climbed out of bed to pace around the room.

Much better.

He reflected on his day. It had been a long one. And everything that had happened was potentially important.

Especially the encounter with Moriarty.

Sherlock had already known that James Moriarty would be his main competition in the games; he had known that since he had seen him reaped. But Sherlock hadn't anticipated that Moriarty would have been able to pinpoint what was likely his only weakness so quickly, especially since he had no idea what Moriarty's weakness was.

_"He's not you're friend Sherlock. He's only latching onto you because he thinks you're his best chance at survival."_

Moriarty's words, pinpointing what Sherlock hadn't even realised had been bothering him, whispered in his ear with John stand a mere foot away. John hadn't heard, Sherlock was sure of it, and glad, because he wasn't sure what John would have done if he had heard.

Sherlock didn't bother getting back into bed, choosing instead to settle into an armchair in the corner of his room and waiting there until he thought it must be time for breakfast.

He was right, of course, when he entered the common area of District 12's floor, Katniss, Peeta, and Laina were all sitting around the table, taking food from the selection. Peeta looked up as Sherlock approached.

"We were just about to wake you up. Tributes need to be in the training center in half an hour." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement at Peeta's words and picked a seat at the opposite end of the table from him as Laina stood to go wake the other tributes. He examined the variety of food in front of him and picked out a few things that looked the most appetizing, including a strange citrus fruit and a slice of something that appeared to be bread cooked in egg.

When John arrived a minute later he slid into the chair beside Sherlock, nodding in approval at the food on Sherlock's plate, and began piling some on his own. He looked up at Sherlock partway through his meal and Sherlock noticed he appeared to be examining him. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"You didn't sleep." John said, sounding a little irritated.

"No."

"You need sleep." He said, lowering his voice a little and glancing to the other end of the table. Clara and Anna were talking to Katniss, Peeta, and Laina, and none of them were paying attention to Sherlock and John.

"I really wish you would stop thinking you know what's best for me." Sherlock said, pushing away what Moriarty had said and trying to make himself believe that John said things like this because he cared.

"I know what's best for you better than you do. And we're training today. You should have slept."

"I couldn't."

"Why the hell not?"

Sherlock didn't want to answer that. He avoided it by taking a large drink of water, but when he finished John was still looking at him expectantly. "I'll sleep tonight."

"You better. If you look this tired tomorrow morning I will come into your room at night and force your eyes closed if that's what it takes." John sounded like he fully intended to follow through on this threat, but it only took a quick glance at his face for Sherlock to deduce he was kidding.

"I don't think you're allowed in the other tributes rooms." He said.

John blushed. "Well they'd have to make an exception, wouldn't they?" He smiled. "But if you'd just sleep they won't have to."

"So, sleeping and eating. Is there anything else you're going to insist I do?"

John blushed deeper. "Well, now that you mention it-"

Peeta chose that moment to stand up and begin talking. "I hope you're all done eating, you need to be downstairs in five minutes. We have a few things to go over first though. First, ever since they doubled the amount of tributes per District, the training that the mentors put you through has been done as a group. If any of you have objections to this, we'd be more than happy to do you separate than the others." He looked around the table at the Tributes, none of them objected. "Great. Now, some advice for today. There will be forty-four other Tributes down there today. Try and make some friends. If you have any skills that you've been hiding from us thus far, keep hiding them. It could be beneficial to have those skills secret. It was for Katniss." He took a moment to smile at his wife, who returned it weakly. She looked a little sick. This couldn't be easy on either of them. Sherlock supposed that was why Haymitch had yet to make an appearance and why Peeta did most of the talking, he was trying to make it easier on Katniss. He was trying to stay positive and strong for the tributes, but he wasn't fooling Sherlock. "Try a little bit of everything, see what works best for you. Remember that fighting skills aren't the only survival skills. Try the camouflage station and the edible foods station. They make even give you some clue as to what the arena will be like. You should probably be getting downstairs. Good luck to all of you." He smiled at them. Laina stood.

"If you'll all follow me, I have to take you to training." She said, then started towards the elevator. Clara came over to talk to John as they all followed her, so Sherlock didn't have a chance to ask John what he had been about to say.

In fact, he didn't talk to John again until lunch.

He spent the morning following Peeta's advice. He tried out some weapons he'd never used before, which was very easy considering every weapon fell in the category of weapons he had never used before. He learned that he had quite good aim with both a bow and arrows and when throwing things, such as axes.

At the archery station he made small talk with Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Caleb Anderson. Lestrade got on with all three of them fairly well, but Donovan and Anderson did not like Sherlock. It probably had something to do with the fact that he insulted Anderson's technique and told him if he didn't improve he'd likely die at the Cornucopia. Sherlock didn't mind that they didn't like him. In a few weeks all but two of the forty-eight tributes in the room would be dead, so it would be best not to get too attached to anyone.

Well, forty-seven tributes in the room. Jim Moriarty was absent. Sherlock wasn't surprised that Moriarty wasn't there training, he supposed Moriarty was planning on relying on his intellect, which he obviously had quite a bit of if he had managed to see through Sherlock. But Sherlock would have thought Moriarty would have been down there recruiting other tributes to his team; finding the biggest and stupidest of the lot to do all of his dirty work for him, and eventually to die for him.

And all of this kept him away from John, who spent most of the morning sword fighting with a Capitol attendant. He was actually getting fairly good by the time lunch was announced.

Sherlock walked up to him as he was putting his sword away and they walked into the dining room together.

"Have a good morning, then?" John asked him as they picked a table in the corner with only three chairs and filled their plates with food.

"Not too bad. And yourself?"

"It was fine. Make any friends?"

"Lestrade seems alright. Unfortunately, he seems to be getting close with Donovan and Anderson, neither of whom likes me." He glared over where the three of them were sitting together. John chuckled. They ate in silence for a minute while Sherlock wondered how to bring up what he wanted to talk about. "John?"

"Yes?"

"We never finished our conversation this morning."

"Oh, um, yeah. I guess we didn't." He was blushing again. Embarrassed. He wasn't eager to continue.

"What had you been saying?"

"You know, I don't really remember-"

"Is it alright if I join you two?" Sherlock looked at the interruption. It was one of the girls from District 10. Molly, he thought her name was. She was looking at him hopefully, smiling a little.

"No," he told her. Her face fell.

"Sherlock," John scolded him, and then turned towards the girl. "Of course you can join us." She hesitated a moment, obviously confused, before pulling out the empty chair. "I'm John."

"Molly."

Sherlock turned back to John, annoyed at the addition to their table, to see John was glaring at him. He made a very pointed glance to Molly, then back to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at Molly, who was watching him expectantly. Ah, right, he had not introduced himself, they both had. "I'm Sherlock." John smiled, confirming that that had been what he had wanted.

"I saw you at the archery station. You're good."

"Yes." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's answer. Sherlock supposed he was being a bit rude, but this girl had interrupted, and that was also rude, so he really didn't care.

The remainder of lunch was relatively quiet. John or Molly would occasionally say something, trying to spark conversation, but it never really worked.

When lunch was over Sherlock decided to go back to archery. John went to compare camouflage skills with Lestrade.

Sherlock had just managed three bull's-eyes in a row, a new record, when Moriarty stepped out of the elevator. He was immediately joined by the other male tribute and one of the female tributes from District 1. Sherlock was fairly certain they were called Sebastian Moran and Irene Adler, but he couldn't be positive. Neither of them had been overly interesting at their reaping.

Sherlock grabbed another arrow as he watched them approach him.

"I didn't expect you to show up." Sherlock said as they reached him.

"Yes well why would I want to do what's expected of me? That's so boring. I anticipated more from you Sherlock. Surely you're better than the rest of them." Moriarty gestured vaguely at the rest of the room.

"Yes, Clara was saying how you can tell a person's life story just by looking at them. That's impressive." Irene took a half step towards him, smiling.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration." Sherlock said, hoping to appear modest, although he did already know most things about her.

"Even so. What have you deduced about me?"

Your father won the Games over twenty years ago. Your mother likes to gossip. You have an older brother who works even though he can afford not to. You're currently in a relationship, most likely with a female and at least a year younger than you. If she is a female, you aren't keeping it a secret. You would see no point in hiding the truth. "Nothing much." He said aloud.

"Such a disappointment." Moriarty sighed. "Oh well. I've got people to meet. See you around." He walked away, Sebastian following quietly after him, apparently not one for words. Irene lingered for a minute, looking like she had something to say, but ended up just shaking her head and stalking off in the opposite direction that Moriarty had gone.

Sherlock resumed his target practice. He traded off his round target for one shaped like a human and as he shot he imagined it was Moriarty he was aiming at.

Not one arrow missed.


	8. Chapter 8

** John  
><strong>

John had a fine week training. He learned how to use some weapons, and he made some friends. Under other circumstances, he may have even considered this a good week, but seeing as how in a mere three days he would be using the weapons to possibly kill the friends, it got categorized as fine and left there.

By the end of the week he was quite good with the sword, alright at throwing spears, and fairly decent at archery. But none of these skills came even close to comparing with his talent with a gun.

There weren't usually guns in the Games. Every once in a while some would be included if the previous year had been too dull, but it wasn't very often.

John was very lucky they had decided to include guns this year. His first time shooting one he hit the target. After a half an hour at the station he never missed the bulls eye. The Capitol attendant at the gun station looked very proud, which John thought was strange because he would most likely be placing bets on his life in a few days. But John's favourite thing about guns is that they were the one thing that John was better at than Sherlock, which had never actually happened before.

John had spent about half of his time in the training center with Sherlock. When he wasn't with Sherlock, he was most likely with Lestrade or Clara, or avoiding Moriarty and Irene. For the first few days, whenever he was with Sherlock, they had spent quite a bit of time avoiding Molly, but Moriarty had taken her attention from them after lunch on the third day, and she hadn't spoken to them since. Well, she hadn't spoken to Sherlock since. She had never really spoken to John in the first place. John had started to notice himself getting irrationally angry whenever she would pop up, completely ignoring him, to talk to Sherlock, and was very glad when she had stopped.

The training scores from District 12 were decent. John had managed a 9 after shooting some targets, which he was very pleased with. Sherlock had gotten a 10. He refused to tell John what he had done in front of the judges, but John assumed it was something along the lines of throwing some spears and telling each of the judges what they had eaten for breakfast. Clara had come out with a 5, Anna with a 7.

The day before the interviews John and Sherlock ate breakfast alone. Anna and Clara had been woken early because they would need extra time to practice walking in the heels they would inevitably be put in the next day. They were off in one of their rooms, being taught proper etiquette by Katniss and Laina. Peeta and Haymitch were sitting on the couch in front of the television, going over notes and talking quietly. They would be preparing John and Sherlock for the interview portion of the next day.

John watched Sherlock eat. He was pleased to see that he had gained some weight since they had been in the Capitol. He also appeared to have been sleeping more, which John appreciated.

Peeta and Haymitch joined John and Sherlock just as they were finishing their breakfast.

"As you know, we'll be preparing you for your interview today." Peeta said, placing a few sheets of paper on the table in front of him. "You've no doubt noticed in the past that the interview is very important. The Capitol has just received the training scores, which both of you scored high in, and this is there chance to learn who you really are to judge if you're worth sponsoring."

"So what's that?" John asked, nodding towards the papers.

"Personalities and questions."

"Sorry, what?"

"Personalities. Angles for us to play so the Capitol like us. Questions. Things likely to be asked at our interview so we don't mess up." Sherlock answered although John had been talking to Peeta. Sherlock looked to Peeta for confirmation.

"Exactly. You've seen the way the tributes in the past have acted. Shy, funny, sexy, angry, excited. It's almost always at least partially a mask, but the Capitol eats it up. You will need to pick a personality trait you can exaggerate. Haymitch went for arrogance." Haymitch rolled his eyes.

"And Peeta and Katniss did the whole star crossed lovers thing." Haymitch said.

"Well I'm not going to pretend to be in love with Sherlock, if that's what you're saying." John said.

"Of course not. Other than the fact they wouldn't believe it twice from District 12, they've already got those tributes from District 7 dating."

"Donovan and Anderson." Sherlock said, nodding. "I supposed they will play that card tomorrow night. His girlfriend won't like that." John caught his eye and smirked.

"No, she probably won't. The Capitol also tends to sympathise with tributes who are in relationships, so if either of you have girlfriends…?" Peeta asked, looking between them.

John shook his head and heard Sherlock mutter something that sounded like "yeah right".

"Boyfriends?"

John shook his head again, glancing at Sherlock to see him doing the same.

"I didn't think so, but I thought I had better check. So, now we'll have to find something else that will work for you."

They spent the rest of the morning doing mock interviews. It was discovered right away that John was a natural. He was friendly and likeable, and could answer questions truthfully without giving too much away or taking too long.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was horrible at interviews. He was sullen and for the most part refused to say more than a few words in response to each question, except for the occasional time when he would go off on a tangent insulting everything he could think of that was relevant to what was being asked. When Haymitch told him that he was even more difficult than Katniss had been, Sherlock locked himself in his room for twenty minutes and only came out when John threatened to ask Anderson to join their alliance.

Lunch with the girls was a quiet affair. Sherlock was eating without persuasion and since he was still brooding over the events of the morning John saw no reason to talk to him.

Their session with Katniss and Laina was quick. They were basically reminded to sit up straight and not trip while walking to the stage or sound nervous. Then Katniss asked if they had any questions about the Games in general, to which both boys said no, and then they were excused to spend the rest of the day as they liked.

"But what are we supposed to do? It's not like we can go touring the Capitol." Sherlock told her bitterly.

"There's a roof. It's got a nice view. It's not touring, but it's as close as you'll get." Katniss told them, and then walked out of the room, immediately followed by Laina.

"So… the roof?" John asked Sherlock hesitantly.

Sherlock sighed before answering. "May as well."

They found the staircase easily enough, and once on the roof made their way over to the edge.

"Nice view." John remarked. Sherlock grunted in response. "Might be our last chance at a nice view."

"Why is it that I am not allowed to be negative about the chances of our returning but you're allowed to say whatever the hell you want?"

"Because I actually want to return." John turned to walk to the other side of the roof, but Sherlock grabbed on his shoulder.

"John." He sounded sad, but John didn't want to see his face. Not now.

"Not now, Sherlock."

"I want to come back, John."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I'm sure you do."

"I want _us_ to come back, John." John could hear the naivety in his voice, and finally turned to look at him.

"Yes, that would be ideal."

"Yes, well, good."

"Good."

They smiled at each other, and John thought about how Sherlock never smiled for other people, well, not really. Not like this.

They spent the rest of the evening on the roof, John pointing out apartment buildings and Sherlock telling him what type of people were likely to live in them.

And then it was time for dinner.

And then they were sent to bed.

The next morning John was awoken early by Peeta. He ate with the others, and then he and Sherlock were sent to Mrs. Hudson to be prepared for the interviews that evening.

They didn't talk much as they were made up. Mrs. Hudson did most of the talking as she applied make-up to them. It felt like quite a lot to John, but when he looked in the mirror he still looked like himself. He spent most of his time being prepared trying to remember all of the instructions that Peeta, Haymitch, and Katniss had given him the day before. He barely paid attention as he dressed in his interview outfit, a simple grey suit with a dark green shirt underneath and simple black shoes. He supposed he looked nice. Sherlock was wearing a black suit with a purple shirt similar to the one he had been wearing on the train. Mrs. Hudson said she just couldn't resist putting him in that colour, as it suited him so nicely.

And then they were sitting at the end of a long line of tributes, watching as Jim Moriarty walked up to the stage to talk to Caesar. It was immediately apparent that he would be a favourite of the Capitol's, which made John incredibly uncomfortable.

Over and hour and forty-four tributes later, it was time for District 12. Anna went first, followed by Clara, followed by Sherlock, with John leading the big finale.

But there was no big finale, not this year.

John was pleasant and the Capitol seemed to like him, but there was nothing spectacular about him.

And then he was back in his room in the training center and he was showering and putting on pyjamas and getting into bed and just lying there.

John could not sleep, because, well, tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

The single word was playing on repeat in his head. Over and over. Tomorrow.

Because tomorrow he might be dead. Tomorrow he would be standing around the Cornucopia with forty-seven other people and at least some of them would die right away and he might be one of them.

He might die tomorrow, and he was alone now.

John was alone, and scared, and would not have minded at all to admit it if someone had asked him at that moment.

But there was no one to ask him that because he was alone and he was going to die.

Unless.

But no, unless nothing. John was alone and was going to die tomorrow.

But then John looked at his watch. And tomorrow had become today, and that was all it took.

John got out of bed. He crossed to his door and grabbed the handle. It was unlocked, John hadn't been sure it would be. He crossed the hall to where he knew Sherlock's room was, but hesitated before knocking. He debated with himself over whether or not the situation would be horribly embarrassing and whether or not he should just go back to his own room.

He was in the middle of an incredibly complex thought process when the door opened in front of him. Sherlock was there, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"I couldn't sleep. I might die today. And I don't want to. I don't want to die, and I don't want to kill, and I… I don't want to be alone." John was getting slightly hysterical, but he was having trouble keeping his voice down.

Sherlock examined him for a moment, and then opened his door a little wider. "Come in."

John didn't need convincing. Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"Are you going to be alright?"

"I might die today."

"So might I."

"Don't you dare."

Sherlock gave him a small smile.

"We should try and sleep."

"I never thought I'd hear you suggest sleep."

"And I never thought I'd have a hysterical John Watson waiting outside my door the night before we both might die." Sherlock shrugged. "But sometimes unexpected things happen."

John nodded slowly, his eyes falling on the bed. He climbed into the side that looked like it hadn't been occupied, and Sherlock joined him a moment later after turning off the light.

Neither spoke. The sound of Sherlock's breathing beside him was comforting to John, who was finding the possibility of sleep much more likely now that he wasn't alone.

"Thank you." He muttered into the darkness, not sure if he had said it loudly or coherently enough to be understood, not even sure if Sherlock would be awake to hear it.

The reply came a moment later, though, Sherlock's voice thick with sleep. "Of course."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."


	9. Chapter 9

**Sherlock  
><strong>

The morning of the Hunger Games Sherlock woke to the sound of someone trying desperately not to sob. He opened his eyes. John was still sleeping, and obviously not crying, so he looked to his door.

Mrs. Hudson.

Well, Mrs. Hudson and the others, but it was Mrs. Hudson who was crying. Peeta gave him an apologetic look before grabbing Mrs. Hudson's elbow and escorting her out of the room.

"Sorry about that," Katniss said, "I've never seen her like that, but with the circumstances…" She looked pointedly at John, "It's understandable."

"Of course," Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow.

"Peeta will try and calm her down."

"Yes, it wouldn't do having her like that on the journey to the arena."

"Which will be in about ten minutes." Haymitch said, leaning back to look down the hall in the direction Peeta and Mrs. Hudson had gone. "We've got to be getting down to the sponsors. The girls are already up. You'll wake him?" He glanced at John, still fast asleep. Sherlock nodded, and then reached over and lightly shoved on John's arm. John groaned, but didn't open his eyes.

Peeta returned to the doorway. "She's calmed down, and I hope she'll stay that way. Laina will be getting furious, we told her we'd be down there ten minutes ago. But we wanted to say…" He trailed off, looking sadly at Sherlock.

"Goodbye?"

Sherlock snapped his head towards John; he hadn't realized that he had actually woken up. John yawned.

"No. Not good bye. Good luck." Peeta managed a weak smile, and Katniss took his hand.

"Thanks. Any last minute advice?"

"Stay alive." Haymitch said. Katniss rolled her eyes.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Sherlock asked, annoyed.

"No, that's what he told us when we were in the Games. And it worked for us." Katniss said. "Good luck." She left the room. Peeta and Haymitch followed a moment later.

Neither Sherlock nor John said anything for a moment. Neither moved, although Sherlock wanted to because he was still on his elbows and they were starting to get a bit sore.

"So, thanks for letting me stay here last night." John said, a little awkwardly, climbing out of bed.

"Did you sleep alright?"

"Yeah, I did. Did you?"

"Yes."

"I wonder where we'll be sleeping tonight."

"Or if we'll be sleeping tonight."

John chuckled quietly, then sighed. "I'm going to go change; I'll see you on the hovercraft."

Sherlock waited for the door to close to get up. He pulled on simple clothes, knowing he'd have to change in the launch room anyway. Dark pants, a long sleeved shirt. And then he was out the door.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him by the staircase to the roof. She was no longer crying, but her eyes were still puffy. He went to the roof alone, she would continue waiting for John, and then they would join him.

A hovercraft was waiting above him, a ladder suspended from it. He grabbed onto it and froze. It lifted him up into a small room, where he remained frozen to the ladder until a Capitol attendant had finished injecting a tracker in his arm. He waited in the room for John and Mrs. Hudson, and then they were led to a larger, more comfortable one. There were couches and arm chairs and a table filled with food, but neither boy ate much.

The hovercraft ride was short. When they landed they were taken immediately to their launch room, where their arena outfits were waiting for them.

Simple boots that laced up and would be easy to run in, pants that were slightly flexible and easy to move in, a simple t-shirt that was longer than t-shirts usually were, and a jacket that was light but insulated.

"It probably won't be too cold, at least not during the day. The fabric of the pants and shirt are both fairly breathable, which would be beneficial with both heat and exercise. There will likely be hills." Sherlock told John as they changed.

"Alright, anything else?"

"Not now. Are you scared?"

"Absolutely terrified." John finished lacing his boots, and then Mrs. Hudson was beside them, hugging them both tightly and wishing them luck, and then directing them to their glass pods.

A voice announced thirty seconds, and John and Sherlock stepped into their pods.

"See you on the outside." John said, smiling, but it was weak and he was too pale to be able to pull it off convincingly.

"You know the plan?" John nodded. The plan mainly consisted of getting as useful supplies as possible without dying at the Cornucopia, and then heading in whatever direction had the highest ground. Unless Sherlock decided the highest ground was not the way to go, then John should just follow him.

And then they were moving up.

Sixty seconds was all Sherlock had to deduce as much as possible about the arena. Fortunately, sixty seconds was plenty of time for Sherlock.

The tributes were situated around the cornucopia, which was located in the middle of a large grassy field. John was on Sherlock's left, Jim and Sebastian were about a hundred meters to his left, Donovan was beside John, Lestrade a few down from her, Molly three down to his right, and Irene and Anderson were beside each other almost directly across from him. No one else had made enough of an impression for him to care about them, and none of the people he was familiar with should be a problem here.

He was confident both him and John would make it through this.

Fifty seconds.

Supplies. Nearest to him was a loaf of bread. A couple meters past was a knife, and then a pack. After that the supplies were more condensed. It wouldn't be worth it to try to get to them though. But he saw a couple dozen more packs of various sizes, a bow with a quiver of arrows, multiple spears and swords, a mace, and then, right in the mouth of the Cornucopia, guns. Two of them. Both of them small and they would be loud when used, but they could be useful. Jim would probably end up with them.

Damn Jim.

Forty seconds.

As Sherlock had guessed, the arena was hilly. The only flat space seemed to be where he was now, and the lake that was fifty or so meters behind him. Beyond the lake was a mountain. It was large, but it didn't look like it should be particularly hard to climb. In fact, although the actual slope of the mountain was covered in trees, it seemed that climbing most of the mountain could barely be considered a hike. In every other direction were just hills. The highest of which didn't reach even half the height of the mountain, but they were all also covered in forest. The arena had lots of coverage.

Thirty seconds.

Wildlife was abundant. He could hear birds, and had spotted a deer disappearing into the foliage.

Twenty seconds.

Water. The surface of the lake was still, but he could hear running water in the distance. A river, probably, maybe even a waterfall. Hopefully it was pure.

Ten seconds.

He would need a plan of action. Grab the bread, then the knife, then the pack. Kill if necessary, and then head for the mountain, going around the left side of the lake, where there are more trees.

Five seconds.

Sherlock prepared to run.

The gong sounded.


	10. Chapter 10

**John  
><strong>

The moment the gong went John was off his platform. He had always been quite a fast runner. He went straight for the nearest pack he could see. Donovan had her eye on it too, but John reached it first. He grabbed it with one hand and kept going to the nearest spear. From the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock slash someone with his knife, but John didn't know who it was.

John reached the spear just as a girl came at him with a sword. He managed to swing the spear and knock the sword out of her hands, right to his feet. He grabbed it too, and then looked up at the girl who had dropped it.

She was already backing away from him.

Right into the path of a knife thrown by Molly.

John ran.

He and Sherlock had agreed on heading for highest ground, so he turned the mountain. Sherlock had already left, was running towards the left side of the lake. John followed.

He caught up with him ten minutes later after Sherlock had slowed from running to jogging.

"We shouldn't run too much now, not if we're heading uphill. We don't want to waste our energy," Sherlock said as John fell into a steady pace beside him.

"We should see what's in our packs," John suggested, readjusting his spear and sword so he could swing his pack off his shoulder.

Between the two packs they ended up with two water jugs, a sleeping bag, a small blanket, a pair of socks, binoculars, a long piece of rope, a small first-aid kit, some dried beef and dried fruit, a pack of crackers, and four apples. Also, a loaf of bread that Sherlock had grabbed from the ground at the Cornucopia.

They split up the food between them in case they were separated, and then went about splitting up the rest of their stuff. With fairly little arguing, they decided John would take a water jug, the sleeping bag, the first-aid kit, and the sword, while Sherlock would take the remainder, including the spear and the knife.

They had slowed to a walk by the time the first cannon sounded, and they both stopped immediately to listen.

"Twenty-one," John muttered once they had finished. "I wonder who."

"We'll find out tonight," Sherlock said brusquely, resuming walking.

"Not here, we won't. I can barely see the sky through all the trees. And we really should be looking for water."

"We are looking for water. Can't you hear the waterfall getting louder?" Sherlock asked, flashing John a look he usually reserved for people who weren't John. A look that insulted people's intelligence more effectively than most people could do with words.

John didn't say anything, but he moved his hand to his sword in a way that he hoped Sherlock would consider threatening.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and waved his spear around menacingly. John laughed.

"Don't do that, you look crazy."

"Well then don't threaten me with your sword."

"Well then don't imply I'm an idiot."

"Oh, don't be offended, nearly everyone is." Sherlock turned on his heel and continued up the mountain. John took a moment to glare at his retreating back before following.

They reached the base of the waterfall half an hour later. It was majestic, and John didn't think he'd ever seen anything that was so simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. And loud, it was also very loud. It came from the mountain high above them, John assumed from a river, and ended in another river, one that flowed down the mountain and out of sight. Partway up the mountain was a rock ledge that jutted out, starting where the trees were and extending out to under the waterfall. There were many other ledges along the rocky face of the mountain, but that one was the most prominent.

John and Sherlock filled their water jugs in the river, and a little ways down stream Sherlock managed to spear a fish, which they ate raw sitting on the riverbank.

They stayed by the river long into the afternoon, and it wasn't until the sun started to set behind a hill on the opposite side of the arena that either of them gave any thought to where they would sleep that night. They wandered downstream a little further to a place that was shallow enough to cross, and then they went looking around through the forest for a nice place to stay.

They found one, just as the last of the light was leaving the arena. A nice cluster of large trees, mainly pine, with a space between them for two boys to lie down, or for one boy to lie down and another to keep watch, almost completely hidden from site in all directions. It also gave them a good view of the sky.

The boys agreed that Sherlock would take the first watch, so John pulled out his sleeping bag and adjusted his pack on the ground in an attempt at a pillow, while Sherlock watched, refusing to take out his blanket because he claimed he wasn't actually cold yet.

John took the blanket out anyway, and he spread it on the ground beside his sleeping bag.

"We'll be able to see the sky easier if we're lying down." He told Sherlock.

"All right then," Sherlock said softly, lowering himself to the ground. John crawled into his sleeping bag, and they waited.

They didn't have to wait long. A minute later the anthem began to play loudly throughout the arena, and faces began to appear in the sky.

A boy from District 2, and boy and both girls from 3, a girl from 4, both girls and a boy from 5, a boy and a girl from 6, a boy from 7, both girls from 8, both boys and a girl from 9, both boys from 10, a boy and a girl from 11. And Clara.

"No," John muttered. He immediately thought about Harry, at home. He wondered how Clara had died. Whether it had been quick or whether she had been in agony for ages, before someone took pity on her and finished her off. John turned to Sherlock, who had sat up and was looking at John with pity in his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock told him quietly.

"Thanks," John pushed himself into a sitting position as well, "But, it's all the more reason to try and win now, right?" Sherlock nodded. "Were any of them your kills?"

Sherlock nodded again, more solemn this time. "The boy from 6. I sliced his stomach open." John winced.

"Moriarty's still alive."

"Did you really think he wouldn't be? He's probably sitting down by lake with the rest of the careers, having a feast, and yelling at them for only killing twenty-one."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"I'm definitely right." Sherlock smirked.

"Yeah, yeah." John yawned. "I think I'll try and sleep now. Wake me if anything happens."

John curled up in his sleeping bag, checked to make sure his sword was within reach, and fell asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N - I am _so _sorry about the wait. I have been busy and I've had some writers block for this story but I think I'm track again. I'll try my best to update more frequently, but I don't want to make any promises I can't keep so I'll just leave it at that._

_Thank you to everyone who has subscribed, reviewed, and favourited. I love you all. 3._

**Sherlock  
><strong>

It was light out when Sherlock woke, and he wondered how long he had slept for. He'd woken John when he had barely been able to keep his eyes open, and John had taken watch without complaint, insisting he take the blanket and Sherlock take the sleeping bag while he slept.

He lay there for a few minutes, surprisingly comfortable on the forest floor, before registering that he could hear voices. And he should really not be hearing voices. He sat up quickly, kicking himself out of the sleeping bag, and looked around.

It was John talking, but where was he?

"John?" Sherlock called hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The voices stopped. Shit.

But then John appeared a moment later.

"Sleep alright?" He asked.

"Who were you talking to?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question.

"Oh, it's just Lestrade."

"_Just _Lestrade?" Sherlock glared at John, who looked nervously at the ground.

"Well and Donavon… And Anderson." John muttered, not daring to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock leapt from the ground, somehow managing to not get himself nor his spear caught in his sleeping bag, and went and stood in front of John, who still wouldn't look at him.

"Need I remind you that we are currently in the middle of a game where soon enough almost everyone will be dead and therefore making friends will _not be beneficial?_"

Sherlock didn't wait for John to answer. Instead, he pushed him (gently, or at least he hoped it was gently) out of his way and walked out of their little clearing in the direction John had come from, the direction where the voices had started again.

Lestrade and the others were standing in the shade of a pine tree. All three looked up at him as he approached. Lestrade smiled, but Anderson glared and Donavon rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock," Lestrade held out a hand for him to shake. Sherlock ignored it.

"What do you want with us?"

"We just ran into John on our way up the mountain and thought-"

"Well then you had best continue on up the mountain. We don't need anymore allies and I'd hate to have to do something I'd regret. Well, I'd regret some of it."

"Are you threatening us?" Anderson asked incredulously.

"Oh don't talk out loud, Anderson. You lower the IQ of the whole arena."

Anderson spluttered, quite obviously looking for something to say, but Donavon beat him to it.

"Look, freak, we wouldn't want to ally with you anyway."

"Lie. You very much want to ally with me, you think I'm going to win. It's nice to know you have so much faith in yourself. Now," Sherlock tightened his grip on his spear and raised it a little, so that it drew the attention of the three in front of him, "Please leave."

"You wouldn't kill us." Anderson huffed.

"My God, you're even less intelligent than I'd thought." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We _are_ in the Hunger Games, Anderson. The whole point of which is to make teenagers kill each other. I thought even _you _could have figured that out. And now that you're annoying me, I might even take pleasure in killing you."

"_Sherlock_." John's voice came as a warning from right behind him. Strange, he hadn't heard him approach. John reached out and covered the hand of Sherlock's that was holding the spear, forcing him to lower it.

The five of them stood around for a moment, none really knowing what to do, or what to say.

"Well… Good luck then" Lestrade smiled awkwardly at them, and started walking up hill. Anderson and Donavon followed him, but not before shooting looks, that had looks been able to cause harm, would have been able to kill. Unfortunate they couldn't really, those two might actually have a chance if Sherlock died.

"Actually," Sherlock called up the hill after them, and they all turned to look, "I wouldn't mind having you on our team, Lestrade. So if Anderson and Donavon go and get themselves killed because they can't control their hormones and, um, _scream_, a little too loudly one night, don't hesitate to come find us."

Lestrade didn't answer, but Sherlock could hear him chuckling as he turned away.

And now he had to face John, who was very upset at him because he was rude, which was stupid because he could have been a lot worse.

"You could have been nicer." John said softly. "I know you don't see the point, because, yeah, they will be dead fairly soon, but shouldn't you be nicer to them for that. I'm sure you don't go around slapping old people. Because that's pretty much what you did. You, Sherlock Holmes, just slapped an old person." John giggled, but then he saw Sherlock's eyebrow raised in his direction, and stopped. He cleared his throat. "Metaphorically, of course."

"That's the worst metaphor I've ever heard."

And then John was giggling again, and it really was strange to hear a teenage boy giggling at something that wasn't even funny in the middle of what was essentially a battlefield.

They laughed their way back to their camp, where they finally stopped after collecting and repacking all their supplies and realized they were both hungry. So they headed back to the river and caught some more fish, and ate them sitting in the sun as they had the day before, because, really, it's not like they had anything else to do.

Around midday the cannon sounded. And then again a few minutes later. Sherlock and John scanned the skies, looking for a hovercraft, and sure enough, one appeared not far from them. They watched as two bodies were lifted into the air. The first Sherlock recognized as one of the girls from district Two. The second was Sally Donavon.

"At least you didn't do it." John said after the hovercraft had disappeared.

"Mm."

"I wonder which one did."

"Sally?"

"No, the other one."

"Probably Anderson."

"Do you think we're safe here? We're kind of in the open and there's a murderer not that far away."

"District Two may have been on her own. Lestrade and Anderson wouldn't come after us, not today. And if there's anyone else, we're armed, we can take them. "

"You're not scared at all?"

"Why should I be scared? Everyone else is scared. It's a weakness that won't help them. Besides," Sherlock nudged John gently in the side, "I have you."

"I'd probably be of more use to you if I had a weapon I was better with. I mean, I'm fine with the sword, but I'd really like-"

"A gun." Sherlock cut him off. John nodded. "Well, then we'll have to get you a gun." And he smiled, and he assumed it looked a little manic because he felt a little manic, but then John smiled back and it hardly mattered.


	12. Chapter 12

_Hi! I am soo sorry about the delay in me posting this. I'm having this problem where I know what's going to happen but I'm having trouble getting it into words, so sorry.  
><em>

_Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, subscribed, and favourited! I love you all.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock<br>**

They decided to wait until night to go down to the lake. Even in the Games it was more likely people would be sleeping at night, and it would be easier to scope out the careers camp without being seen with the dark on their side, so John and Sherlock returned to their cove of trees to try and get some sleep. They'd set out after the anthem played.

Neither of them actually required sleep, seeing as they hadn't actually been awake that long, but they took turns feigning it as the other kept watch.

Finally the sun began to set and Sherlock and John went over their plan one more time. Stay together until the lake, then split up. Gather as much information as possible on the careers camp, and then return to a predetermined place to share information and hopefully come up with a way to steal a gun, and if possible, some other supplies, but the gun would be priority.

It didn't take long to reach the lake. Even walking it didn't take much more time to go down than it had to run up.

"Okay," Sherlock whispered. "You go left, I'll go right. You remember that funny looking tree about five minutes back?" John nodded. "We'll meet there. If I'm not back in three hours, come looking. I'll do the same for you."

"Alright. Be careful, Sherlock."

"I will. Stay safe."

It took Sherlock about half an hour to reach a spot where he had a good view of the careers camp. He was perched in a tree on the edge of the clearing by the lake. It was dark, but they had a fire going, so Sherlock pulled out his binoculars to try and see who all was there. It was difficult with the minimal light, but he managed to identify the group. Along with Moriarty, there was Sebastian, Irene, the girl from Two, both the boys from Fours, and, surprisingly, Molly. Sherlock pondered this for a minute. She had seemed vicious, sure, but he wouldn't have thought her career material. And he hated being wrong.

Still, there were only seven of them. Although there could be more guarding the camp. Sherlock didn't risk trying to get closer.

He watched them for a while longer. None of them appeared particularly concerned with sleeping, and they seemed to be having a cookout of some sort on the fire. He wondered momentarily whether they were eating what they had retrieved from the Cornucopia, or if they had managed to catch something.

After about an hour of watching he decided that all of them, except perhaps Sebastian, were scared of Jim. They didn't look as if they wanted to talk to him much, and they were all staying on the outer edges of the camp when possible, while he was in the middle by the fire. Sherlock suspected they only stayed with him because they figured they were safer on his good side than off it. Pointless, of course, they'd all die eventually anyway. Just as soon as they stopped being useful.

Sherlock watched the camp until Irene and one of the boys from District Four disappeared into the woods in the opposite direction from him. It looked as though they left on orders from Jim, and Sherlock wondered if he had gotten annoyed by their presence or if he had heard someone.

Sherlock made it back to the meeting spot after what he estimated was two and half hours after parting with John.

John wasn't there yet.

It took an hour for Sherlock to be positive it was later than they agreed to meet, not having a watch complicated this a bit, and a sense of dread filled him.

He clasped his spear in his hand and made sure his knife was easily accessible, before walking to the place where he and John had split up, and then walked along the edge of the trees in the direction John had gone.

After ten minutes he noticed two people appear by the side of the lake. Even from the distance he could identify them. One was Jim. He was carrying a torch.

The other was John.

Sherlock wondered if he should have included "Don't get caught by the enemy" in the plan.

Sherlock watched from the trees for a minute, trying to decide what to do. They were waiting for someone, that much was obvious. But who?

"Me," Sherlock said aloud. "Of course for me. They're waiting for me to try and get him back."

It couldn't be a trap. If they had wanted to trap him they would have put John out there alone.

An ultimatum then? A challenge? Were they just going to kill John and make him watch?

He decided that if that were the case he should at least _try_ and save John's life. He had no doubt that John would do it for him.

He walked into the clearing, head held high. Jim and John were still quite a ways away, but as soon as Sherlock started moving Jim's head snapped around to look at him.

"Ah, Sherlock, we've been waiting for you." He called to Sherlock. John turned as well, looking frantically at Sherlock and shaking his head.

"I'm sure you have. John, are you alright."

John glared at him. "'M fine."

Sherlock reached them, and Jim smiled brightly at him. "Brilliant. Now, if you'd just drop your spear."

"I don't think so."

"But, Sherlock. I just want to have a little chat. There's no need for petty violence."

"Petty violence? It's the Hunger Games. If I kill you now I'm one step closer to going home."

"If you make a move to kill me I'll only have two choices."

"Is that so?"

"The first, I kill John."

"You're not armed."

"And the second, I have my people kill both of you."

"You think they could kill both of us before I can get my spear through you?"

"We have the guns. There's one pointed at each of you right now."

"You're lying."

"Even if I am, I still have this torch." He pointed it at Sherlock and grinned. "I could burn you, Sherlock. I could burn the _heart _out of you."

"I've been reliably informed I don't have one."

"Oh Sherlock," Jim moved the torch so the flame was inches from John's head, and for the first time since Sherlock had shown up, John looked scared. "We both know that's not quite true."

"Don't."

"Sherlock, I wasn't lying when I said I didn't want to kill you now. That's too obvious. I'm saving you for something special. My big finale in the arena."

"And John?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"So then what's stopping me from stabbing you?"

"You'll be shot."

"Then I'll die knowing the last thing I did was rid the world of Jim Moriarty."

"Fine, you can die now. I'll find someone else for my finale. Are you sure you wouldn't like to reconsider? They shoot on my command."

Sherlock was about to respond when a scream came from the woods behind the careers camp. A female. Irene. She screamed again, louder this time. She was obviously in pain.

Jim was clearly conflicted. He was about to say something when Irene screamed for a third time, and he chose to sigh in irritation instead. "Congratulations, you two get to live." He said sarcastically before turning and running towards the screaming. He shouted to his allies with the guns, and Sherlock heard their footsteps join Jim's as they ran to save Irene.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Sherlock asked John, quickly checking him over for any injuries.

"Yes. You shouldn't have come, you could've died."

"I've told you many times I don't really care about that. I assume they took your sword?"

"Yes. They left me with the rest of my supplies though, which is about the best we could have hoped for."

"Take my knife then. We'll have to get you something better in the morning. Now come on."

They heard gun shots as they reached the edge of the woods, and a moment later, two canons.

"I wonder who had Irene."

"Not our problem. How did they catch you?"

"Irene and one of the blokes from Four jumped me. They brought me to Jim who stared at me for about an hour before he decided we should go for a walk along the lake. I thought he was going to drown me, to be honest. Irene left again before we did."

"I counted seven of them, did you see anymore."

"I don't think so, no."

"Good, we might actually have a chance."

"Two against seven? Yes, those are great odds."

"It might only be two against six, we don't know if Irene survived. And the rest of them are as disposable to Jim as we are. He might just kill them for us."

They made it back to their trees just as the sun was rising and Sherlock offered to take the first watch. He spent the time trying to decide how to go about finding Lestrade. And then he tried to decide how the hell he was going to convince Lestrade to split with Anderson once he'd found them.


End file.
